Where to from Here
by piperholmes
Summary: She stared at his lips, blinking rapidly, sending a single tear down her cheek. Branson knew in that moment there was nothing he couldn't forgive her. Episode 1X06 AU, what if things went a bit differently during the count incident?
1. Where to from Here

**Where to from Here**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Firstly thank you so much for the kind response to my last story; particularly those who reviewed (_The Irish Chauffer, Candy, Katie, shana(dot)rose X2—b/c your name was removed by the site on the last fanfic I posted. Sorry about that!—Bristol Fashion, browneyes, Anges Robinson, beyondgurl, Peachdreamsandperseus, cloudlessangel, MissPixieWay, and hifinewtune_). SO grateful! Now, this is a new thing for me. This is episode 6 of series 1 with a little bit of rewrite. I've never written anything like this before so I'm opened to input and rely on you wonderful people for your honest opinions. Feel free to go all Violet on my booty! As usual, this is unbeta'd, just not enough hours in the day, but hopefully you are all in a forgiving mood. *cue puppy eyes* **

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"Where to from here, m'lady?" Tom Branson called over his shoulder as he rounded a busy street in Ripon.

"What do you mean? We've arrived," insisted Lady Sybil with glee, her excitement driving clear and rational thought to the background. This was not a moment of calm respite, no; this was a moment of change. This was a moment not to be missed.

"The meeting's in one of these buildings here?" Branson pressed slowing the car, still unclear of their destination. Of course he knew the count was to be called very soon but he had received a stern dressing down from Lord Grantham, warning him of the dangers of taking a young, impressionable member of the aristocracy, more importantly his youngest daughter, to such politically heated events. It was made clear that this was not to be allowed without the Earl's expressed approval. And that approval was to come from him directly. Branson had nodded mutely, pressing his lips tightly together to stave his anger. Truthfully he had very little ground to stand on. Sybil was not even eighteen yet and therefore under her father's protection. But that rationale didn't stop Tom from feeling the sharp knife of resentment. Disappointment was a powerful and decisive arrow that struck at the heart of a person. However, Branson was not yet willing to topple the crown, and knowing Sybil had received the same mandate, did not even consider they would be in Ripon for anything other than one of Sybil's committee meetings.

"This is the meeting. We're here for the counting of the votes," Sybil insisted, startling the young chauffer as she jumped up. He brought the car to an immediate stop, jerking the vehicle a bit.

Turning to Sybil he called, "I don't understand. I thought that…" But his words were interrupted as the Lady jumped down full of spirit.

"Don't be silly Branson. You didn't think I'd miss my very first by-election?" She teased, her face shining with anticipation before she turned her back on him.

Behind him a motor honked in frustration, adding to the panic he felt. "I don't think his lordship would approve," he tried to reason, but was met with a casual glance over her shoulder and further insistent honking.

Sybil was not to be deterred. "Let me worry about him."

Branson felt the world spin wildly out of control. He was sure this would mean the end of his employment but what could he do? He doubted his Lordship would thank him very much if he bodily picked up his daughter and forced her back into the car. "I have to park the car. Don't move. Stay where you are!" he commanded, his fear overriding correctness.

"Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders." She replied cheekily, her body practically bouncing with the feeling of new found freedom.

The motor behind them continued to protest and Branson waved in frustration then quickly pulled away, frantic to find a place to leave the car and chase after the young mistress.

With an angry curse he plowed the car into the first available spot he saw and tossing his hat on the seat he dashed towards the contentious crowd. If circumstances were different, if he weren't desperately afraid for his own lively hood and for the safety of his new friend he would have been very delighted to find himself among the vocally and openly political group. He would have been highly interested in the results of the vote, but as he shoved his way through the throng the words being shouted down from above were merely a rush of sound.

He felt a moment of relief as he spotted an unharmed Lady Sybil, and fought down his resentment of her highhanded treatment. His priority was her safety; he would deal with the rest later.

"Can we call it a day, m'lady?" he implored when he reached her side, his eyes darting around nervously and still shoving to keep her safe.

"Don't be silly. This is the moment we've come for," She declared, but her voice had lost some of its resolve.

"This lot aren't interested in politics. They're spoiling for a fight," he insisted, though part of him wanted to cheer her on, help her stay strong in her defiance, except he knew that this wasn't her fight; not yet. Sybil, with her soft smile, warm blue eyes, and mischievous sense of humor, was strong and brave and something in him knew she would one day have to fight, fight for something she desperately believed in, but her world was just beginning to open up and there was too much she wasn't prepared for. He couldn't help the arm that shot out and encircled her protectively. He had to get her out of there.

"Sybil!" A voice called out and Branson pulled her slightly behind him.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Matthew Crawly demanded adding his arm to her protection.

"I couldn't miss this," Sybil replied, her voice raspy as her breathing grew rapid and uncertain.

"Couldn't you? I could." Matthew shot back, and Branson ignored the derision in his tone. The group of men that had just entered through the archway caused a heavy weight of dread to settle in his chest.

"I don't like the look of this m'lady," he warned, knowing that Sybil's fine dress made her a clear target. Anxious to forestall any violence against her he invaded their approach pleading, "Look, look, I'm on your side. Don't cause any trouble; you have to believe me."

Strong arms encircled him from behind and he was wrenched back causing him to lose his footing.

"What's your problem then, Mr. La-di-da?" he heard the ring leader demand of Matthew, and Branson fought desperately against his capture.

"My problem is you," Matthew quipped and Branson fought harder, the heavy stench of beer filled his nose.

"Oh-aye." Came the taunt and the two men came to blows.

With every bit of strength he had in him he yanked free and tackled the ringleader to the ground just as Mr. Matthew was sending his fist forward. He heard Sybil cry out and risked a glance backwards in time to see Mr. Matthew catch her stumble but his distraction cost him greatly as the ringleader caught him on the chin. It was enough to keep him down and before he could react he felt a force hit him in the side, knocking the air from his lungs. Seeing the booted foot come at him again he tried to twist out of the way but it was too late; he had become the focus of the rage of the group of men and their kicks and punches sent him against the stones of the ground. There wasn't much he could do in the heat of their onslaught and simply did his best to keep his face protected. A foot came down hard on his wrist and he felt a sharp pain in his side and then it was over. Other men had jumped into the fray and began evening the numbers and Branson felt someone grab the back of his uniform and try to drag him to his feet.

"Come on Branson," Mr. Matthew commanded sharply, striving to pull the chauffer upright.

Branson fought to find his footing, stumbling as his mind worked to propel him forward faster than his injured body was willing to go. The solicitor's strong hand kept him from hitting the ground again and suddenly he felt her body align with his as she tucked herself under his arm.

"Lean on me Branson," Lady Sybil said softly, shakily, and he could hear her fright and worry.

"Thank you m'lady," he forced out, at least he tried. Pain radiated through his body and his vision swam. He tried not to put his weight against her but a wave of dizziness threatened to send him back to the ground and he was forced to rely on her somewhat. She held him valiantly, her warm softness refusing to allow him to fall.

The trio made their way out of the crowd and onto the street. Branson worked to focus his attention on placing one foot in front of the other and remain upright. He felt awkward and uncomfortable leaning on his employer's daughter. His eyes cut to her and he saw her hat was missing; her hair springing from the intricate coif that he knew had taken Anna all morning to achieve. 'Refuses to be tamed,' he thought randomly, not comprehending how inappropriate that idea was, especially at that moment.

"Steady on chap," Matthew said gently, guiding them across the street with a firm hand. "My office is just here."

"I'm alright," he wanted to say, to end the frantic look in her eyes, the sorrow, but honestly he didn't know if that was true. Everything had begun to go numb, shut off, and confuse him. Instead he allowed himself to be lead by the future Earl of Grantham and worked to fight the instinct to wince from the pain in his wrist as she gripped tightly to the arm resting on her shoulders.

They entered the building and Mr. Matthew led him to a chair. He couldn't help the gasp that escaped as a wave of pain shot through his body, forcing his eyes closed. He managed a few deep breaths, grateful at least that it appeared no ribs were broken, and finally opened his eyes.

She was there, kneeling before him, her concern radiating off her body. "I'm sorry Branson, so sorry," he heard her whisper, her stunning blue eyes even more vivid behind the glossy sheen of unshed tears. She was digging through her little bag and pulled out an impossibly small and delicate white handkerchief.

She carefully reached forward and, realizing her intent, Branson jerked back. He ridiculously was unable to allow her to dirty something so beautiful despite how desperate the situation may appear. Sybil hesitated, looking directly into his eyes, and time slowed. He saw her guilt and she saw his deference. They sat frozen until, by unspoken agreement, he relented and allowed her to press the piece of cloth against the corner of his lower lip. He jerked slightly at the sting which caused her to jump but she quickly recovered, dabbing at the seeping blood. She stared at his lips, blinking rapidly, sending a single tear down her cheek.

Branson knew in that moment there was nothing he couldn't forgive her. His tongue felt fussy but he was desperate to reassure her.

"Please don't worry m'lady. I'm sure I look worse than I am," he told her, trying to reach out and dry her cheek, but he couldn't. His arm felt heavy, too heavy.

At his words Sybil sent him a sharp look. "Branson?"

"I've gotten some water," Mr. Matthew interrupted, stepping into the room.

Branson hadn't realized he'd gone and tried to bring his focus to the man but when he brought his head up he was rewarded with a wave of nausea for his efforts.

"Matthew," Sybil stated, but Branson could hear the urgency in her voice.

Branson felt warm, and the lights in the room began to dim. No, that wasn't right, the lights weren't fading. It was him. His head now felt heavy and he worked to refuse its attempts to loll back.

"His coat," he heard Mr. Matthew say but that didn't make sense. Then he felt her hands on him, pulling relentlessly at the buttons. Tom wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it but he found it suddenly very hard to catch his breath.

His vision was hazy and some how distant. Sybil seemed miles away rather than practically in his lap. He felt the front of his uniform fall open.

"Matthew! Fetch Dr. Clarkson," he heard her call frantically. "I…I think he's been stabbed."

'Whose been stabbed?' he wondered his lids lowering.

Her hand came to rest against his cheek. "Oh no. Oh please God no," she breathed and Branson closed his eyes.

To be continued?

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***poking head out* Is it awful? I've always wondered at the lack of follow up between Sybil and Branson post "the count incident" and then I got to wondering how she would feel if it was him that was hurt rather than her. I'm not usually one for openly dramatic and physically intense moments—meaning I've not written them before, I love to read them though!—so I'm interested to know if its rubbish. (And to _The Irish Chauffer_ you HAVE to let me know if I've sent Branson out in his underwear again. LOL!)**


	2. Straight Ahead

**Where to from Here Part 2: Straight Ahead By:piperholmes**

**A/N: Thank you so much for the amazing support for the first chapter in this story. With each review and alert I received I only felt even more motivated and inspired to try and make this story as good as I possibly can. I'll admit part of me was vastly intimidated and I hope this chapter will not prove a disappointment! But what more could a writer ask for than a group of awesome people who pushes her to be better? A huge thanks to _beyondgurl, peps281, dare-to-dream22, heythere, anon, hifinewtune, cloudlessangel, Syblime, , repmetsyrrah, browneyes, Agnes Robinson, Seasideshipper, and The Irish Chauffeur (your help—and friendship—is invaluable!)_. Please enjoy! **

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"I don't like the look of this m'lady," Sybil heard him state loudly, calling out over the ruckus of the crowd. She twisted in his arms and saw for herself the angry faces of the men pushing their way through the people. The reality of the situation finally settled on her shoulders and she couldn't help the way her hand gripped at the front of Branson's uniform, but he was already moving away from her, standing to protect her. This wasn't what she had intended.

"Look, look, I'm on your side. Don't cause any trouble; you have to believe me." She heard him argue, and she was struck with the intensity of his voice; there was no concern for his own safety, his fight was for her.

She didn't know what to do. Part of her wanted to cry out for help or demand order, but she knew there was no way she'd be heard. She was so rarely heard. Her heart began to race as she saw Branson fall back forcefully. There was no time to even gasp at the horror of seeing her friend so mistreated; a particularly gruff looking fellow who walked like a bull and smelled rather similar to one as well was in Matthew's face exchanging insults.

There was nothing she could do, nothing she could think to do. Her mind was flooded with panic and fear and her body tense. With no clear path in mind she began scrambling back awkwardly.

"Oh-aye." She heard the ruffian say and wanted to cry out in warning as he raised his fist, his target her handsome cousin's face, but was nearly knocked off her feet as a body pushed passed her. Branson had tackled the ruffian to the ground.

Cousin Matthew reached out, gripping her arm hard, keeping her on her feet, but still the world moved perilously out of control as she watched Branson get hit, then kicked.

"Matthew!" she begged, hoping he would know what to do, what she wanted him to do. There was still too much noise, too much fear pounding in her blood. Instinct took over and Sybil felt her foot go out as she aimed a kick at one of the attackers, now blinded by desperation. Her uncoordinated movements combined with Matthew's tight grip sent her wobbling.

Matthew yanked her back to him. "Sybil!" he shouted back and she heard the accusation in his voice, heard the reprimand, the disbelief, but she would not be silenced.

"Help!" she screamed, "Please!"

As she suspected there was no immediate response, but it seemed enough to grab the attention of a few fellows. Those close to her turned at her cries and quickly taking in the situation began throwing punches and kick as well. There was no explanation, no calm inquiry or discussion, it was chaos. It was righteous indignation and puerile fanaticism personified, but Sybil didn't care; he was free and that was what she wanted, the rest of those present be damned. Any shock at the escalated violence was drowned out by relief as cousin Matthew propelled her towards the chauffer, whose booted feet were valiantly trying to find purchase and stand. His hair had fallen forward, dancing about his face as he scrambled to his feet, making him look more boy than man. Sybil's stomach lurched at the blood oozing from his bottom lip and the smear of dirt painted along one cheek. She was grateful for Matthew's presences as his strength was able to steady Branson and help him move toward the archway.

Realizing the young Irishman was still quite unsteady and, eager to be of some help, she pulled free of Matthew's grip, moving quickly to Branson's side and placed his limp arm around her shoulders. She ignored the gasp of horror she heard in her head, which sounded remarkably like her Granny, and paid no attention to the way her heart hammered at the feel of his heavy body pressed so tightly against her own. She had never been allowed such intimacies with a man before but the urgency of the moment wouldn't allow such distractions. She doubted if Branson would find the situation any more comfortable and so instructed in as strong a voice as she could muster, "Lean on me Branson."

The chauffer gave her a surprised look.

"Thank you m'lady," he whispered so quietly that if Sybil hadn't been looking at his face she had no doubt she would have missed his words. It was clear that at first he was trying to keep his weight off her but she felt the shift in his stability and steeled herself against his heavy body, allowing only a small stumble before she righted them both.

Matthew guided their steps out of the mêlée. She could feel the arm around her neck begin slipping and griped tighter, refusing to believe she was fighting a battle she was sure to lose. Branson was failing, growing more awkward and difficult to sustain.

"Steady on chap," Matthew said gently, guiding them across the street with a firm hand. "My office is just here."

Sybil looked toward the grey stoned building, and took a deep breath. It seemed miles away, but it only took a glance at the damp brow of her friend for her resolve to solidify. One step in front of the other was all she had to remember; one step at a time. She resisted the urge to groan at her own hypocrisy. Had this not been what her father had warned her against? Her own naïveté? She had run full speed ahead and crashed beautifully, only she wasn't the one to pay the price.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Matthew opened the door to the building, taking Branson's full weight onto himself as he guided the young man to a chair.

"I'll get some water," Matthew offered, but she was too distracted by the pained cry Branson had given. Her eyes were riveted to the blood on his lip as she knelt before him trying to surmise as much of the damage as she could. When he finally opened his stormy ocean blue eyes she could see the uncertainty in his gaze.

"I'm sorry Branson, so sorry," she breathed out on impulse, having no other words to offer her abused friend. Her heart raced at the injustice of his injuries and her chest felt the press of responsibility and quilt and she could feel her eyes burns with tears. She had no right to cry, her emotional upheaval was nothing compared to his pain. Swallowing hard, she turned from him to search her bag for a handkerchief.

Pulling out the snow white material and cautiously reaching forward to try and wipe away some of the evidence of her selfishness, she froze when his head snapped back, away from her touch. On instinct she searched out his eyes, it was a response borne of the easy and sudden friendship they had established. It was the habit to seek his expressive eyes to see if he was laughing at her, if she'd challenged or impressed him, or if he was about to argue with her. That is how their strange and unfamiliar relationship worked, and even now, as he sat disheveled and bleeding, their eyes communicated easily.

Her cheeks burned with mortification as the magnitude of the trouble she'd caused slapped her into reality and she silently pleaded with him to allow her a moment of reprieve, and his is eyes softened in answer. She dabbed at the cut on his lip, feeling overwhelmed with gratitude, and, despite her best efforts, a single tear escaped down her cheek.

"Please don't worry m'lady I'm shur I lood wer…" Branson began speaking, his words slurring and breathy.

Sybil felt her own breath catch. She could see his head begin to bob and his eyes grow unfocused. His face was pale and there was a light sheen of perspiration along his hair line. She called out to him, her chest rising and falling quickly as dread worked steadily into her heart.

Matthew had returned, mumbling something about water but Sybil was riveted in horror as she watched Branson begin to loose the battle with consciousness. "Matthew," she pleaded for a second time that day.

At the urgency and panic in her voice Matthew followed her gaze. It was clear there was something desperately wrong with the chauffer, something they couldn't see perhaps.

"His coat," he stated, taking charge of the situation.

Grateful for some direction, she followed his unspoken command and quickly jumped into action, forcing the buttons of his coat out of their designated homes. The warmth of his body infused her shaking fingers, keeping her focused on the task. She shoved the coat open, her eye roaming the white shirt underneath. The air rushed from her body, her vision growing fuzzy as red and white blurred together.

In a haze of shock she cried out, "Matthew! Fetch Dr. Clarkson. I…I think he's been stabbed."

She watched, frozen, as Branson's eyes began to roll back. Uninhibited, her hand reached out to rest against his cheek, to will her own strength into him as she prayed, "Oh no. Oh please God no."

Despite her pleas, his eyes finally closed, his head falling forward against his chest, unconscious.

"Damn," Matthew ground out, getting a better look at the deep gash in Branson's side. He spared Sybil an apologetic look for his language before slipping an arm around the limp body. "Help me get him to the floor."

Sybil offered whatever assistance needed, working with Matthew to make the transition from chair to floor as carefully as possible. She could only watch as her cousin ripped at the already torn shirt, exposing the wounded flesh further. This time Sybil could not contain her gasp. She had never seen so much blood.

Matthew pulled off his coat, and turned to her. "I'm sorry Sybil but I need your coat as well," he informed her with as much patience as he could spare under the circumstances.

"Of course," she replied, as if she understood, but she didn't. Nothing made sense at the moment, she couldn't think straight, so she simply did as he bid.

"I don't think it would be wise to take him to Downton and I don't think we have time to wait for Dr. Clarkson to get here," he explained gently as he balled up her coat and pressed it to Branson's side. "I've a friend, a doctor, who lives near here. I will see if he's home and if not then we'll…figure something out," he finished lamely as he used his own coat to tie around Branson's middle, securing his makeshift bandage.

He stood, and, realizing his intent to leave, Sybil pressed wildly, "What do I do?"

Matthew allowed her an encouraging look. He liked his young cousin dearly. Of the three sisters she had always worked to make him feel welcomed, and her genuine, open manner had charmed him. He was protective of her, a dear little sister, and it hurt to see her beautiful face so marred by the ugliness of the world. Truthfully he didn't know what to do. He was doing his best to keep a bad situation from going worse, and he was beginning to feel his own inadequacies threatening what little calm he clung to. "Try to keep him comfortable," he advised, and, as he ran out, threw over his shoulder, "try talking to him."

Sybil wanted to cry out for Matthew to come back, not to leave her, but of course she didn't. He was getting help and they, or rather Branson, needed it desperately.

She was alone with him now, her ears filling with the sound of her own harsh breathing as her knees pressed against his leg where she knelt next to him. For a moment she could only stare at him, her new ally in her fight for change, lying so still on the floor. She had called him revolutionary and he had corrected her, but to her he was revolutionary; he spoke to her about important things, listened to her opinions without chastisement or a look of patient indulgence. He encouraged her. This was quite revolutionary to her.

'Keep him comfortable; talk to him,' Matthew's words repeated in her head and she began to move, initially not sure what she was going to do to help but then found herself lifting his head gently and placing it in her lap.

"Is that more comfortable?" she asked him quietly, her voice husky and dry. She pulled off her gloves and, by natural response, began stroking his hair away from his face. She could smell the pomade he used and was surprised at how soft his hair felt against her skin.

"I'm sorry Branson," she told his silent figure, feeling her guilt renewed. "I'm sorry I was headstrong and refused to listen. I…" she licked her dry lips as she considered her words, then realizing this was perhaps the one time caution in word choice could be forgotten began to speak, truly speak from her heart. "I get so frustrated with the unfairness of it all. I didn't understand before, before you came, just how much the world seems to strive to keep people down. I want everyone to have a voice…I want a voice. There are times I feel ashamed to want more than I've already been given. I see that the life I live is one of privilege and it seems…" her ramblings trailed off as she heard a low groan.

"Branson?"

She shifted slightly, keeping his head in her lap but she could now gaze down at his face easier. "Branson, please, wake up."

She was reward with a slight grunt. Her hands now framed his face as she softly ran her fingers across his skin. "That's it, wake up Branson. Do you hear me? Wake up," she implored desperately.

"I…hear you, m'lady," he answered finally, his words slow and quiet, then mumbled faintly, "I always hear you."

He had yet to open his eyes but Sybil didn't care. Her emotional response was so overwhelming she couldn't help the rush of tears that came. In that heartbeat she prayed as fervently as she ever had before, bargaining what she could for his safety. His eyes fluttered slightly before his face scrunched up in pain, but then his fair eyelashes began to move, and Sybil gave a small whimper when her eyes finally met his.

Confusion and pain clouded over his face. "What—" he croaked simply

Sybil sniffled loudly and pressed her words out around the lump that had formed in her throat. "You got injured in the fight, more severely than we first thought. Matthew's gone to fetch a doctor."

"Can't…breathe," he labored to say.

Sybil nodded. "You've a deep cut in your side. We've bound the wound. Take shallow breaths, and try not to talk too much."

"Little…chance…of that." Branson whispered, closing his eyes against the pain.

The seriousness of the situation still gripped tightly to Sybil and it took a moment to realize he was making a joke, but through her tears she offered a disbelieving and unladylike snort.

At the sound Branson opened his eyes, a hint of his familiar mischievousness shining through.

"You are ridiculous," she scolded lightly.

"Made…you smile…though."

Sybil grew somber again at his words. "Please, don't do that. Don't try to make this easier on me. It's my fault you're in this situation. I shouldn't have…"

"No," he quieted her, cutting through her apology. "You should have…and I hope…you always will," he said, his eyes conveying the conviction his breathless voice could not.

His words were cryptic but she allowed herself to believe she knew his meaning. Sitting in Matthew's office, acting as if there was nothing untoward with his shirt open, head in her lap, and she understood she was forgiven.

"Hush now," she cooed gently, remembering the comforting words that had been whispered to her by a particularly caring nanny. "I'll watch over you while you rest."

She could see him swallow, saw the effort it took, the way his lips pressed tightly together and lost their color. He offered her the barest of smiles, and Sybil's heart broke at the gesture. Before she had time to think her actions through, she was reaching out for his hand, lacing her fingers through his and giving a small but firm squeeze. No more words were shared, no more words were needed as they sat holding hands and waiting for help to come.

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**Phew! This was a difficult chapter because I've never written a story where Sybil and Branson aren't already madly in love with each other. It was hard to keep them declaring their love! *giggle* Thank you for reading and please feel free to let me know if I need to stick to writing oneshots. *nervous giggle* As always this is unbeta'd, sorry for the errors. **


	3. A Sharp Turn

**Where to from Here**

**Part 3: A Sharp Turn**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Thank you so much to those who reviewed the last chapter. The continual support is mind boggling! Thank you to _i'll-cover-you-x, alertthecorgis, Dinky Dau, lady555, violet-phoenix-rose, beyondgurl, Agnes Robinson, ch0sen0ne, Redconky, dare-to-dream22, peps281, , hifinewtune, and Guest—even anonymous reviews are awesome—and particularly The Irish Chauffeur, keep me on my toes my friend! _Please enjoy the next installment, though as always, be warned, this is not beta'd**

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Mary Crawley was bored.

Dinner had been a fine affair, as dinner often was. The conversation had been as a rock skipping along the surface of the water, never delving too deep but somehow weighted, as any polite dinner conversation should be. It had been a small party: her parents, Edith and herself. Sybil was still off at some committee meeting, her granny had complained of some rheumatism and had stayed home, and she hadn't heard from Matthew.

Matthew.

There was a name that brought a bit of excitement.

Mary gave a small smile as she considered those passionate blue eyes and just slightly too long blonde hair. Her fingers longed to push through the lushes locks.

"I say Mary, you are looking quite pleased with yourself," Edith accused, snatching Mary from her vision.

For a moment Mary truly felt bereft to find herself still sat in the great opulence of her home, where the clock on the wall continued to tick away. She could only scowl at her sister. Just like Edith to go and ruin a perfectly good daydream.

"You are looking a bit flushed," Lady Grantham declared concerned.

Mary could only sigh. It seemed everything in this home was blown out of proportion, but Mary had little doubt why. They had been staring at one another, having nothing of consequence to discuss. But now Mary had a bit of color in her cheeks and scandal must surely be just around the corner. Only Mary wasn't in the mood for games.

"A small headache; I believe a bit of fresh air will help. Good night."

Without waiting for a reply she rose and gracefully exited. She had no intentions of heading outside, preferring the silence and safety of her own room, but suddenly she longed for a moment of freedom, to be outside these walls and in the cool night air. She needed to think. She needed to think about Matthew.

"Lady Mary," a voice called, causing Mary to whirl around in surprise.

Gwen gave her an apologetic smile but did not comment, instead offered, "I've fetched a coat."

Confusion marred the young aristocrat's pale face. "Why? What do I need a coat for?"

"I need your help."

Mary's gaze flew to the face of the man who haunted her imaginings as he stepped out of the shadows.

"Matthew?" Mary cried, but pressed her lips together as Matthew place a finger to his own lips, begging her silence.

"What's happened?" she whispered harshly. "What are you doing skulking about in the dark?"

Even as she goaded him, she obediently allowed Gwen to help her with her coat, ready to follow him.

Matthew motioned to the front door and she led the way, giving Gwen a dismissive nod. The duo quietly moved through the large front doors and out onto the pebbled drive.

"Matthew?" Mary questioned again.

"I ran into Sybil and Branson in Ripon. They were there for the count," he began to explain.

Mary couldn't help the small gasp at such a revelation. She was surprised by her younger sister's open rebellion against their father's wishes though she suspected it had more to do with the young handsome Irishman who spouted socialist nonsense at any opportunity.

"Oh, I could ring Branson's neck," Mary interrupted intensely.

Matthew gave Mary a rather uncomfortable look. "What's happened?" she demanded.

"There was a fight."

Mary's hand flew to her mouth in shock and fear. "Sybil?" she breathed, sudden images of her sister horribly injured invading her mind.

Matthew shook his head. "No, Sybil's fine. Branson, however, was left rather badly injured. I didn't know what to do so I had a friend bring me here to collect you, and he'll drive us back. "

Mary's brow gathered and lowered in confusion, her flawless white skin suddenly marred by the wrinkles of uncertainty. "I don't understand. Where's Sybil and why do you need me?"

It wasn't that she wasn't concerned for the family chauffeur, and she was quite certain Lord Grantham would have plenty to say on the matter, but she couldn't see how it was necessary for her to go traipsing about the countryside with two men, unescorted, late at night.

Matthew hesitated.

His reticent behavior and her own sudden impatience born of frustration locked horns, and Mary found herself snapping, "For heaven's sake Matthew, where are they now?"

"We've taken Branson to the infirmary."

"And Sybil? Why did you not bring her back with you?"

"That's the thing…"

* * *

Sybil shifted—again. The hard, unforgiving wood chair seemed to have struck a deal with her unrepentant corset: make life miserable for her.

Her stomach growled.

Sybil glanced to the now cold cup of tea a nurse had brought her a few hours ago. She hadn't been able to drink it earlier; her insides had felt so displaced as to make the idea of eating or drinking seem impossible. There was an acrid smell that permeated the air about her, summoning forth a rather vivid image from her childhood of visiting a great uncle as he lay in his sickbed. She had been rather young, maybe 4 or 5 years of age, and the incident, as with most memories from such a long time ago, appeared to have no beginning or end, but rather was one moment that stood alone. It was the image of his grey, boney fingers resting lifelessly on the bed. She had stared at them; afraid they were going to reach out and try to grab her. He had been sick for a long time, if she recalled correctly, and his entire room had smelled dreadful, causing her eyes to water.

She could smell it again, and it brought a feeling of foreboding, of despair, of loss.

Her fingers gripped the armrests as she shifted again, trying to relieve the uncomfortable pressure in her backside. Her derrière screamed for relief, but Sybil simply didn't have enough left in her to resume her pacing. She had anticipated an emotionally effecting day, looking forward to her first by-election, but this had far exceeded her expectations, leaving her adrenalin-drained body feeling shaky and exhausted.

Yet she couldn't leave him.

Matthew had pleaded and begged for her to go back with him to Downton. The doctor had assured Sybil that Branson would mend and would most likely sleep the rest of the night thanks to the medication he had been given, but Sybil couldn't reconcile the idea of him being here because of her, and then her abandoning him. She had no clear plan or idea what her next step would be, only knowing she couldn't hide forever in the doctor's private office.

If only they would let her see him.

Once help had arrived, Branson had been whisked away, taken from her arms. The hours of waiting had been agonizing, and for a time Sybil had considered using her position to begin making demands on the staff in order to find out what was happening, but her courage fled under the weight of her guilt. She felt very un-aristocratic knowing the role she'd played in bringing them all to this point.

Thankfully Matthew seemed not to suffer with such thoughts and had pressed for the information she had so desperately desired.

"Looks worse than it is…no permanent damage…if we can avoid infection then we can assume a full recovery…"

The words all ran together in Sybil's head, their defined meanings making sense but the implications escaping her understanding. Her mind was still in that tiny room, holding his hand as he bled onto her coat. Words couldn't pull her from that office in Ripon; she had to see him for herself.

The doctor had spoken politely and patiently, in deference to her title, but was adamant that she return tomorrow to visit. Matthew had insisted in taking her home. The nurses had tenderly encouraged her to consider her own needs. Still Sybil had refused.

She heard the door open, and turned to find her oldest sister staring at her.

"Mary? What are you doing here?" Sybil asked, moving to stand.

Mary elegantly raised an eyebrow, a small frown marring her face. "My dear, perhaps you are better equipped to answer that question. What _am_ I doing here?"

Sybil felt the implication of Mary's words wash over her. She felt her skin burn with embarrassment, but it wasn't in the nature of their family to reach out to each other and so she used her defensiveness to reply, "Clearly Matthew's told you what's happened."

"Obviously," Mary replied, her tone droll, but Sybil wasn't fooled. She could see the way Mary's fingers curled into her hands and knew she wasn't quite as complacent as she wished to appear.

The two locked gazes. Sybil in her dirty, bloodstained dress and Mary in her beautiful finery.

"I'm not leaving," she declared softly.

Mary's lips thinned at such a declaration. "You are," she responded firmly yet equally as calm, as if they were offering each other a slice of cake.

Sybil shook her head but Mary was not to be deterred. "Papa will be furious, but you must face it at some point—"

"You think I wish to stay here because I'm afraid of Papa?" Sybil interrupted, her anger finally finding release. "You believe me so heartless as to be concerned with my own wellbeing?"

Mary's brow knitted together but she said nothing as Sybil began to move in agitation.

"I lied to him! Tricked him!" she confessed. "I wanted to go to the count and I knew he wouldn't go against Papa's wishes but I didn't care. I wanted to go so I went. I told him he was taking me to committee meeting. When he realized what it was, he wanted to come straight back. I ignored him, patronized him and now…"

Mary could see Sybil's neck work as she fought to swallow her emotions, which was a relief to Mary. It was embarrassing to witness such an outburst. Her younger sister had always been passionate and naïve, which seemed a dangerous combination.

In a more controlled voice Sybil continued, "I did this. I can't leave him here, in a strange place, a strange bed, watched over by strangers."

Mary's fist bounced against her legs as she considered Sybil's words. Slowly, carefully she began, "Look, darling, Branson is in enough trouble as it is—"

"Haven't you been listening?" Sybil cried. "He's not responsible for this."

"Yes, I have been listening," Mary finally snapped, her nostrils flaring with indignation. "Now you will listen to me. I believe you when you say Branson isn't responsible, but in this moment it doesn't matter. What do you think is going to happen to Branson when Papa finds out? You're going to have to stick up for him, but what credit will you do either him or yourself if the whole world is gossiping about how the Earl of Grantham's youngest daughter was mooning over the chauffeur, refusing to leave his side?"

Sybil's heart sank and she visibly wilted. "I didn't…I'm not mooning, I'm concerned."

Mary took a small step forward. "I understand, but that's not how the world works, not for a Lady and the chauffeur. You open him up to something much harder to recover from than the wounds sustained today. Do you not see the harm you can cause?"

Sybil slowly nodded, beginning to understand.

"We need to leave," Mary instructed, her clenched jaw relaxing some. "It's for the best."

A single tear fell gracefully down Sybil's cheek, but she forced air into her chest and held it until the burn pushed it between her lips. She swiped at the wet path down her face.

"I'm ready. I only wish they would allow me to see him."

"I know Sybil."

Again Sybil merely nodded, defeated.

Mary placed a gentle hand to her sister's back and pressed her towards the door. The hall was dark and still and it seemed to Sybil that time had started again and she had missed an entire day.

A shadow moved across her path and she met the cool blue eyes of her cousin.

"Cousin Matthew," she greeted, her own endless blue eyes petitioning his understanding. "I can't thank you enough for your help today. If you hadn't happened along I don't know how I would have managed." She rested a hand on his arm and gazed up at him.

Matthew offered Sybil a gentle smile, and both missed the slight widening of Lady Mary's eyes. "I'm glad I was there," he acknowledged.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" a mousey voice called, causing the trio to turn. Looking directly at Sybil, she squeaked out, "If you'll follow me."

Confusion danced across Sybil's face

"You've three minutes," Mary decreed.

"How…?" the youngest Crawley stammered.

Mary just shrugged, "Go, because I promise you Sybil if you make me wait even a second over that—"

"I won't!" Sybil promised, the corners of her mouth sliding upwards. She scrambled after the tiny nurse who threw a warning glance over her shoulder and shushed dramatically.

The ball of tension that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her stomach began to release, instead replaced with a sudden nervousness as they moved quickly along the darkened hall. She was taken through a heavy door into a room with about ten beds, five along each wall, though in the low light it was difficult to truly tell. It seemed most of the beds were empty but three had been sectioned off with white curtains, allowing some privacy.

Another nurse sat at a desk at the far end of the room, but she made no move to help Sybil or even acknowledge her presence so Sybil simply followed where she was led, to the curtain furthest from the door. Her guide gave her a firm look, as if Sybil were a disruptive child seeking to awaken the dead, but then moved the curtain back enough to allow Sybil to step through.

It took a moment for Sybil's eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness that was only dispelled by the lazy orange of a small lamp. After a moment of blinking she was finally able to make out his stocky form. Her cheeks pinked as she realized he was shirtless, his broad chest bare, though the lower half of his torso was wrapped and bound. Forcing her gaze upwards she could see dark bruises forming under the pale curly hair that peppered his chest and his lip still looked swollen. Stamping down her missish impulses, she carefully allowed her fingers to graze the warm skin of his shoulder. He didn't stir from his slumber and she was grateful. His chest rose and fell, over and over again, and she found herself mimicking, breathing with him.

He was safe for the night, and it was time for her to go home and face her family.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading! I admit I found a bit of fun writing for Mary's character—first time attempt of course, but I really enjoyed it! Hopefully this was equally as enjoyable for the reader. Lol!**


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